Dead Man's Quarry (6 page)

“We don't want drink,” said John patiently.

“Eh?”

“I say, we don't want drink. I keep saying it, but you won't listen. We never drink. We're total abstainers. We advocate strict temperance and the abolition of the public-house. Now!”

“Eh?” repeated mine host owlishly. “Wellim-damned.”

Words failed him. He sat down suddenly and heavily on the stairs.

“Then,” he said ponderously at last, with surprising moderation, “what you come knocking public-house up after closing-time for? That's what I wants to know. Everybody got a right to opinions, no doubt. But want to bolish public-house, keep way from it. See?”

“Oh, let's go,” said Felix impatiently. “We'll never get any sense out of this fellow.”

But a renewed explanation from the more patient John elicited the information that at about half-past five that afternoon mine host had served a young man answering to Charles's description with a double whisky, and that the same young man had stood drinks to him and to two or three loungers in the bar.

“Friend o' yours?” inquired the landlord, endeavouring to cover his bare ankles with the flaps of his mackintosh. “He bain't no total abstainer, not be a long way.”

“I dare say not,” said Felix dryly. “Can you tell us which way he went when he left the inn?”

The landlord looked at him dreamily, and as Felix was about to repeat the question, said with some asperity:

“Shut the door, young gentleman. My ankles be cold.”

Felix rather irritably did as he was requested, and the innkeeper, pointedly addressing himself to the more sympathetic John, went on:

“In a manner of speaking I did see which way the young gentleman went. He went into the quarry field, just across the road.”

“Into the field!” exclaimed Felix. “But surely he came back again?”

“I doesn't know, I'm sure, and that's why I said in a manner of speaking. I didn't see he come back.”

“Had he his bicycle with him?”

“Ah!” assented their host. “He took his bicycle, and an elderly gentleman.”

“An elderly gentleman! What elderly gentleman?”

“Ts, ts, ts! Please to take it easy, young man. How can I say what elderly gentleman? An elderly gentleman as happened to be outside with his car.”

“What kind of car?”

“What kind o' car? A large car,” replied the landlord, measuring a distance of about a yard and a half between his hands. “Yes, a large green car. And very nice too,” he finished abruptly, on a penetrating hiccough.

“Did the other man, the old one, come back, do you know?” asked John.

“Not as I saw him. But in a manner of speaking I suppose he must a done. Because half an hour arter-wards the car'd gone.”

The girl, who had been hovering anxiously in the passage during this conversation, here broke in timidly:“I saw the gentleman with the car come back from the field, Father. He didn't have nobody with him. It looked like Mr. Morris Price of Rhyllan Hall, I thought. As soon as I saw the car I thought, that's Mr. Price's car, I expect.” She turned to John. “My boy's sister works up at Rhyllan, you see, sir, and having been up there once or twice with him I've noticed Mr. Price's green car. And sure enough, when the gentleman come back from the quarry field, I saw it was Mr. Morris. Or so I thought.”

“You girls thinks too much,” remarked her father ponderously. “The supper's spoiled and the chickens starves while you stands about and thinks.” He winked laboriously at John.

“It sounds like my father's car, certainly,” said Felix in response to John's look of inquiry. “Well—in that case it's all right, I suppose. Probably my father gave him some business message that sent him out of his way. We'll find him at the Feathers when we get back, no doubt.”

He looked and felt extremely relieved. The vision of Charles, deserted by his friends, lying injured by the side of some lonely lane, vanished from his mental horizon.

Before
they turned to go, John inquired:

“Where does the footpath over the quarry field lead to?”

The old man laughed.

“Depends which way you takes, master. You might take the right to Upper Ring Farm, or you might go straight over the common on to the Wensley Road. Or you might fall over the quarry edge and get a broke neck. I should say your friend's took the Wensley Road. You can get to Penlow that way. In time.”

“Do you remember what time it was when you saw them going across the fields?

“Well, it might be half after six,” said the innkeeper thoughtfully, getting heavily to his feet. “Half-past six to seven, I couldn't say. The young chap was in here drinking and talking a while, and then he went outside, p'r'aps to sit on the bench, p'r'aps for a spin on his bike, I couldn't say. And some time arterwards I sees him going across the field along of the elderly gentleman. Well, I be going to bed. Many a hearty chap's been cut off in his prime through having less night air than what I've had to-night. Good night, masters. Thank you, sir. Ada, see the gentlemen out and bolt the door.”

He departed with unsteady dignity up the stairs. The girl followed John and Felix to the door with an anxious look on her plain, pale face.

“I hopes you won't think as Father's allus like this, sir,” she said timidly. “It'd do us harm if it was to get about as he took too much of his own liquors, they're that strict with the licensing nowadays.”

Reassuring her, they left the inn and went back to the car where Rampson was patiently awaiting them.

“Probably,” said Felix, “Charles met my father on the road and came back with him. . .” He paused. “No, he can't have done that, because we should have seen my father's car if it had come along this road. I wonder what the dickens Charles was doing hanging about here all that time? We left at half-past five.”

“Your father might have overtaken him going down the hill,” suggested John, “and he might have got off his bicycle and walked back. Though it's a nasty hill to turn a car on, I doubt if it could be done, in fact. Anyhow, we'll probably hear all about it when we get back to Penlow.”

But there was no sign of Charles at the Feathers, and Felix, after ringing up Rhyllan Hall and learning that neither Charles nor Morris had returned there, spent, in spite of his endeavours to reason himself out of his anxiety, an uneasy night.

The sun rose the next morning shrouded in those soft mists that at such a time of year are the presage of a bright, warm day. Christmas, Rampson, and Felix stood in the doorway of the Feathers Inn, smoking their after-breakfast cigarettes and discussing plans for the day.

“You don't really expect me to turn towards London on such a day as this, Sydenham? I am sure the laboratory won't miss you for another week or two. And it seems a pity not to explore Wales a bit further. Besides, you haven't had nearly enough fresh air yet.”

“The air I get in London is quite fresh enough for me,” answered Mr. Rampson composedly, and indeed with his plump, fresh-coloured face and well-built, sturdy body he did not look particularly in need of country air nor any other restorative. “But I don't mind staying a bit longer. I have seen less attractive counties than this.”

“I must get my bike out and start for Rhyllan,” said Felix, throwing his cigarette-end away, “and see if my troublesome cousin has put in an appearance yet.” The bright morning sun had dispelled his vague anxiety of the night before, and made him feel a little ashamed of his alarms. He hesitated. “I suppose,” he went on diffidently, “you wouldn't care to come over and see Rhyllan while you're in the district? It's only four miles away, and it's supposed to be worth seeing. Part of it—a very little part—is fifteenth century. Blodwen and my father would be delighted if you came to lunch, I know. And so,” he added quickly, remembering that Rhyllan Hall had now a new owner, “would Charles.”

John Christmas, in whom the circumstances of Charles's disappearance had roused a mild curiosity, accepted the invitation heartily.

“That's very kind of you. We shall be delighted, and we'll follow you to Rhyllan in an hour or two. Meanwhile we'll have a look round this old town, shall we, Sydenham? It's market day, judging by the number of sheep I've seen going through the town. And here's a sergeant of police coming to regulate the traffic. No, he's coming here.”

“Mr. Felix Price here, sir?”

Felix, on his way upstairs to fetch his haversack and pay his bill, turned at the sound of his own name.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Could I have a word with you a moment, sir?”

“Certainly,” said Felix cheerfully. Sergeant Dew was an old friend of his. But at the stolid, unsmiling look on the officer's face, his own expression changed. His anxiety of the night before returned. “Come in here,” he said, and opened the door of a small sitting-room likely at that hour in the morning to be deserted.

It was not long before he came out, followed by the sergeant. He hesitated a moment in the hall, with a vague startled look on his face, as if he did not know where he was, nor what to do next. Then, catching sight of John leaning against the lintel and watching him sympathetically, he stepped quickly over to him. His pleasant young face looked suddenly white and lined.

“A terrible thing has happened,” he said in a low voice. “My cousin's been found dead in the quarry. I—” He stopped and passed his hand over his forehead. “He's at the Tram Inn. I—I must go there. But first I must ring up Rhyllan and let them know, I suppose. God! It's ghastly!”

“A messenger's been sent to Rhyllan Hall, sir,” said Sergeant Dew sympathetically. “No need for you to telephone, if you'd rather spare yourself. No need for you to go to the Tram, either. The inspector can call and see you at Rhyllan later in the day. My orders were just to let you know what's happened.”

“Thank you,” said Felix mechanically. “No, I must go. I feel—poor Charles! We ought to have gone back for him yesterday! I knew we ought to go back. It's my fault this has happened.”

“Oh, come,” said John gently, recognizing in his new friend one of those ultra-conscientious souls who have an endless capacity for tormenting themselves, “that's nonsense. You couldn't possibly have foreseen such a thing.” He glanced at the kind-faced sergeant, who was looking at Felix with a sad and embarrassed expression as if, being the bearer of ill news, he felt himself responsible for its nature. “You'd much better do as the sergeant suggests—go home and await developments.”

“No, no! I must go and hear how it happened. I must. One of the family must be there.”

“Mr. Morris is sure to be there, sir,” pointed out Dew deferentially.

“Is he?” said Felix rather wildly. “No. He's away, I think... I don't know! Anyhow, I must go! Get me Morgan's car, Sergeant.”

“I'll take you over,” said John quietly. “I'll get the car out at once.”

He went round towards the garage, followed by Felix. Sergeant Dew looked after them and then glanced at Rampson, who had been a silent witness of this conversation.

“A dreadful thing to happen, sir. Poor Sir Charles had only been back from Canada six weeks.”

“A very extraordinary thing,” agreed Rampson. “One wouldn't imagine it was easy to fall over a quarry edge in daylight, or during such a clear night as last. And there seems to have been no reason why he should go near the quarry.”

The sergeant shook his head non-committally, and was silent for a moment. Then his interest in the mystery got the better of his professional calm.

“Looks like murder,” he said in a low voice near Rampson's ear.

“Indeed!”

“Yes, sir. All them injuries was never done by a fall. Shocking.”

“Really.”

“Yes, sir. It's a shocking business.”

A little disappointed at this stolid young man's reception of his news and rather regretting that he had cast this pearl before so unappreciative an audience, he suddenly resumed his professional dignity, said briskly: “Well—good morning, sir!” and departed.

The little grey car backed into the road. In response to John's interrogative look Rampson shook his head.

“You'll find me hereabouts when you get back. I shall go and have a look round the town.”

There was almost complete silence between John and Felix during the nine-mile drive to the Tram Inn. Glancing occasionally from the corner of his eye at his young companion's face, John found it always the same, white and troubled, with a gloomy frown on the brows and a set droop to the lips. John could not help being a little surprised at the boy's apparent depth of feeling. A nasty shock, of course, to hear suddenly of the death of a man who, only yesterday, had been the companion of a happy holiday. But the acquaintance, in spite of the cousinship, had lasted only three days. And John had gained the impression that Felix and his cousin had not been by any means twin souls.

As they approached Rodland Hill Felix said, looking across the fields to where, some distance away, a grey face of rock showed through a gap in the trees:

“That's the quarry.”

His voice was strained and strange. There was no lightening of the gloom on his face. He became more animated as they approached the top of Rodland Hill, sitting upright in the car and looking eagerly ahead of him. But when the Tram Inn, standing among its tall trees a little way back from the road, came into view, he sank back with a sigh. There was a handful of people standing about outside the small timbered building, and three cars were drawn up outside its door. A large green car, John noted, was not among them.

“That red car's Dr. Browning's,” said Felix listlessly. “He does the police work in this district. And the little blue one looks like Blodwen's.” His face cleared for a moment. “My father may have driven over in that.”